


The Word Made Flesh (The 21st Century Remix)

by amberfox17



Category: Norse Mythology, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Norse Myths & Legends, Other, myth!Loki - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberfox17/pseuds/amberfox17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a strange man in Tom Hiddleston's hotel room. Except that it's less a man and more a Norse god, who says he just wants to thank Tom for all the good work he's been doing in his name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Word Made Flesh (The 21st Century Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Word Made Flesh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/749359) by [amberfox17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberfox17/pseuds/amberfox17). 



> So I wrote a fill for the Vikings meme prompt 'Athelstan/myth!Loki, Loki convinces him the gods are real', which is linked above, and should probably be read first. Somehow, that spawned this...

Tom cheerfully sings to himself in the shower, not particularly well but with gusto, snippets of songs and often the same line over and over. It has been a long day of interviews and photo shoots and all that’s on his mind is falling into bed as soon as possible. He climbs out of the cramped hotel shower still humming and towels himself off briskly. He leaves the towel on the back of the door as he walks out of the en-suite, tidiness still an ingrained habit even when it’s not his house.

There is someone in his room.

He freezes, mind racing. There is a strange man sitting on his bed, which puts him between Tom and the door, between Tom and his clothes, between Tom and his phone. This is not a good situation to be in. The en-suite door has a lock but it is flimsy, and what would he do if he locked himself in it – just wait and hope the man left?

They were warned, all of them, to be careful with fans, of what to do if someone got too close or if they felt unsure at any point, but Tom hadn’t really taken it seriously; he loves meeting his fans, still thrilled that he has any, and while some are noticeably over-enthusiastic he’s never felt unsafe. But to find someone in his hotel room – someone who has snuck in while he was in the shower, somehow bypassing security and the electronic lock on the door – is, bluntly, frightening.

The man on the bed is tall, perhaps even taller than Tom, but not dissimilar in build, lean and long-legged. Tom doesn’t fancy his chances in a scuffle, especially not when he is naked, and so he chooses to look the man over carefully, in case he needs to give a description later. The man is certainly distinctive, with long red hair and sharp features. He is – handsome, Tom thinks, extremely so, although there is something deeply unsettling about him, even beyond his obvious disregard for propriety. The man is dressed in what looks to be an expensive three-piece suit with a green scarf coiled around his neck; it is not unlike what Tom was wearing earlier in the day and he wonders if the man has been stalking him, and if so, how on earth Tom has missed him. He doesn’t look like a crazed fan, but really, why else would he be here?

Still, the man is sitting calmly, just smiling, with nothing in his hands or by his side, and so Tom decides that charm is probably the best way to handle the situation.

“Uh, hello,” he says, with his best winning smile, covering his groin with his hands. “Ah, who are you? And what are you doing here?”

The man tilts his head and lets his gaze sweep up and down Tom’s body. Tom tries very hard to stay calm and friendly.

“I wanted to talk to you,” the man says after a long, uncomfortable moment. “I wanted to offer you my thanks.”

“For what?” Tom says as politely as he can, wondering if he should grab the towel out of the bathroom, or if a sudden movement would provoke this stranger.

“For bringing my name back into the world,” the man says, eyes glinting. Tom can’t quite pin down what colour they are – blue? Green?

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Tom says, wincing a little, because now is really not the time to fall back into Eton manners.

“No?” the man says, clearly amused. He stands and Tom instinctively steps back, the wall cold behind him. The man is _very_ tall as he moves closer until he is standing directly in front of Tom, who licks his lips and tries not to look frightened.

“I am Loki of Asgard,” the man drawls, in an excellent imitation of Tom’s Loki-voice, “and I burdened with glorious purpose.”

Tom attempts to smile. “Yes, that’s – very good,” he manages but then – but then the man’s face _ripples_ , like light or water, and suddenly he _is_ Tom-as-Loki, with the hair and the outfit and _with Tom’s face_. It is too sudden, too unreal to be frightening and so Tom gasps instead of screams, completely thrown by the sight of his own face smirking at him.

He is dreaming. Yes. He went to bed and now he is dreaming - or hallucinating, maybe he is sick, maybe, maybe he was drugged – or, or having a complete mental breakdown from stress and overwork – but there is no possible way this is happening. Loki is not real. Gods and shapeshifters and comic book characters are not real and do not accost actors in hotel rooms.

Loki raises one hand and trails it gently down Tom’s face and it feels real, feels warm and soft and – strangely soothing. Tom’s head is starting to spin a little, as if he were drunk, and surely that is proof that this is a dream, just a strange, narcissistic dream resulting from too much talking about his work.

“I am grateful for the work you have done in my name,” Loki says, this time in a deep, resonant voice. “Because of you, thousands of mortals across this realm are thinking of me, making sacrifices of their time and coin to me, and worshipping my image for the first time in centuries.”

“But you’re not _my_ Loki,” Tom blurts out, because that’s not, that’s not what he’s done _at all_. Yes, Loki has proven immensely popular and he’s seen first-hand the time and dedication the fans put into merchandise and costumes and so on, but it’s not _worship_ , and even if it was, this – this individual is not the Marvel villain Tom plays in the movies.

“No,” Loki says, sounding pleased, rippling back into the red-haired man but now he is naked, his body covered in runic tattoos, his hair braided and now – now he looks like a Norse god, like the figure Tom read about in storybooks before he took the part. “I am Loki Laufeyjarson, god not of mere mischief but chaos, of destruction and transformation, of the wolf-time and the breaking of worlds. But you have acted as an avatar of mine, using my name and invoking my being. The myths change, the stories you little mortals tell yourselves always change, but every time you use my name I hear it. You have built an army of believers for me, little one, as vast a web of faith as any priest of mine has ever managed.”

“I am not your priest,” Tom says, struggling to get the words out against the heavy lassitude trying to overwhelm him. Loki laughs and grips him by the jaw, his hand a brand against his skin.

“Yes, you are, little mortal,” he hisses, teeth bared in a feral grin. “And you will find that I am generous to those who serve me.”

No, Tom wants to say, wants to struggle, but his body feels like lead and his knees buckle. Loki catches him easily and picks him up as if he weighed nothing, carrying him to the bed and laying him down with surprisingly gentleness.

“Because of you I have been able to walk this world in the flesh for the first time in centuries,” Loki says softly, arranging himself over Tom who cannot seem to catch his breath, the sound of his shallow panting filling the room. “I would grant you a boon,” he says and Tom stares up into his shifting eyes. He has read enough Faust to be wary of making a deal with the devil, even in dreams, and so with a great effort he shakes his head. No.

“Is there nothing you would ask of me? I can give you the adoration of your fellows, ensure that your name is sung forever in the tales of your people.” Loki leans in closer and Tom’s head is swimming with the sheer force of his presence. He is so beautiful, he thinks muzzily.

“Or I can give you whatever you think you cannot have,” Loki murmurs and his face ripples again, sliding into the appearance of Scarlett, Chris, Natalie, Robert, Elsa, Benedict and on and on, faster and faster, every girl who ever caught his eye, every man he’s ever smiled at, a flickering parade of beauty until he settles back into Tom’s own face. “I can give you anything you desire,” he murmurs, brushing a chaste kiss over Tom’s lips and it is strange, so strange to see his own features looking at him with desire.

“You,” he gasps, and there’s so much to add to that, so much he needs to say to whatever this creature is, but as he speaks Loki shifts back to his red-haired form and covers Tom’s mouth with his own, swallowing up all his protestations in a searing kiss.

It is not like any kiss Tom has ever experienced, for as Loki’s breath fills his mouth he feels himself falling away, losing all sense of his body as he floats in darkness. Light flickers around him, bright flashes that flare into being and burn furiously before exploding and fading away: stars, he thinks, and then he sees it, a vast galaxy, an ocean of light branching like a great tree, as sinuous as a serpent. But it is still, stagnant, the light cold and dead and unchanging. But he can feel a heat rising within him, shuddering, breaking, and he is consumed by, fire dancing along his veins and now the stars whirl around him, immense forces of heat and light colliding, spinning, living. Somehow he can see, at their hearts, the intense pressure shaping and reshaping the very elements, creating and destroying and spitting out shards of matter until they shatter themselves, their violent death throws scattering the dust of life across the great tree.

He can feel this glorious destruction rising within him, a wild tide of dark pleasure, white-hot, blood-red and he is screaming, can feel the sound echoing around him even though he cannot hear it and then he shatters, scatters and breaks, orgasm ripping though him, undone, unmade, reborn.

“We will meet again, my little priest,” he hears dimly, but he can’t reply as sleep is claiming him, dragging him down into its depths, which is impossible, for surely he has been asleep all along.

Tom wakes abruptly in the morning as someone hammers on his door.

“Tom! Tom, do you know what time it is?”

He rolls over, grimacing at the sudden stiffness; did he sleep in an awkward position or something? A quick glance at the clock tells him that he is very, very late and with a shouted apology he scrambles out of bed and into the bathroom to wash. He looks at himself in the mirror: he looks tired today, which is strange because he feels well-rested. In fact, he slept so deeply he cannot quite recall going to bed at all; he must have been half-asleep in the shower and just passed out on the bed.

He pulls on his clothes as quickly as he can, grabbing his bits and pieces as he goes. He can hear someone having a rather irate phone call outside his door and feels guilty for oversleeping. At least this is the last day of the press circuit and he can go home soon.

As he picks up his phone he notices something strange wrapped around it. He pulls it off, frowning at the thin leather cord and the animal tooth pendant. Did someone give him this yesterday? He doesn’t remember it and he would certainly never pick out something like this for himself. He tests the tooth’s edge with his thumb and hisses when it breaks the skin. Dangerously sharp and hopelessly tacky; no, there’s no way it’s his. But when he moves to put it back down it seems to grow warmer in his palm, the tooth smooth and oddly soothing to touch as he stares at it, mesmerised.

“Tom! For the love of God what are you _doing_ in there! We’ve got to get a move on!”

“Sorry! I’m coming, I’m coming,” Tom yells back, the spell broken, and he flies out the door for another day of talking about Loki and how much he loves being him, the wolf’s tooth tucked absentmindedly into his pocket where it burns against his thigh.


End file.
